Those Who Worship
by Dan Maculla
Summary: FBI Agent Ray Lusky is called to the scene of a standoff in Plymouth, Massachusetts. The sinister Temple of the Outer Messenger has barricaded itself in its compound, and is shooting any federal agents who come close. Not wanting to repeat another Waco, Lusky tries to talk the cult down before things escalate. But there are forces at work Lusky is not ready for. Cosmic forces.


]

**THOSE WHO WORSHIP**

#

Agent Ray Lusky stepped out of the driver's side door of his Crown Victoria. The chill New England air was blowing north to south over the grassy barrow in front of him, stinging his bespectacled face with little cold whips. The wind blew his generic blue and white tie over his right shoulder. He opened the back door of the Victoria and took out his winter jacket, pulled his tie onto his shirt, and zipped the jacket over it to keep it from blowing.

Lusky was an aging, balding man who had worked at the Federal Bureau of Investigation since 1987. His dull, green eyes – hidden as they were behind his horn-rimmed glasses - had seen many things in his career. Things that would make any other person squirm. But over the years those eyes had become small shields, glazed over with a professional dispassion that only a near forty-year career in law enforcement could create. Nothing got to Lusky. Well, nothing except-

His thoughts were broken. Duty snapped into his conscience. A few meters ahead, a moustached man clad in SWAT gear was conversing with two agents. By the middle-aged look of him and his mannerisms towards the agents, he was likely their superior. Lusky could see the matte ATF logos on the backs of their flak jackets in the overcast light. The moustached man broke off from his group and walked over to Lusky.

"Welcome to Plymouth, Agent," said the moustached man as he shook Lusky's hand. "I'm Lt. Howard Skinner, the agent in charge. We're glad you could make it out of Washington on such short notice."

"No problem, lieutenant. Let's just hope we can diffuse this situation before we lose any more lives."

"Damn straight." Skinner brushed a finger across his moustache. The two walked together towards the barrow. The base of it was occupied by several dozen tents, trucks, and government vehicles. A number of camera crews from CNN, Fox News and other major networks were milling around taking interviews, footage and coffee breaks at their vans. ATF agents and police officers were running to and fro toting submachine guns and assault rifles. The scene was not dissimilar Lusky's younger brother Dan's description of the various bases he served at while on tour in Iraq.

Except instead of the Republican Guard, the belligerents here were the members of the Temple of the Outer Messenger. "TOMboys" to the disgruntled citizens of Plymouth who had never adapted to their odd sojourns in town.

"So what do we know about them?" Lusky asked Skinner.

"Well, they seem to be your standard New Age freaks. Moved into the Barrow back in 2009. Not too popular with Plymouth but they kept to themselves so nobody ever bothered them. They worship their leader, unsurprisingly. Guy only known as 'the Messenger'. We haven't been able to dig up anything on him. No name, aliases, or assets. All we know is he's likely a foreign national from Egypt. We have a source within the Temple who gave us a rudimentary rundown on their belief system. All mumbo-jumbo really, but they do believe the end times are here and as such don't really give a shit about human lives. That makes 'em dangerous. In their minds, they got nothing to lose."

Lusky was a mere 100 meters from the compound on top of the barrow. From the outside it appeared nothing more than a lavish mass of wood interspersed with windows and pagan carvings. But Lusky was not a stranger to cults. The inside was undoubtedly an elegant labyrinth of passageways, chambers, antechambers, hidden rooms and hiding spaces for dark little secrets, not to mention it was crawling with cultists, or "tomboys" as the locals called them, willing to give their lives for their dear Messenger. And even on the outside one could not help but admire the fortress-like quality of the wooden building. A distinct impression was made that the tomboys were more interested in rabidly protecting their beliefs than sharing them. Lusky half-expected to be sniped by Miss-Flower-McHippie-turned-devoted-marksman any minute. Nonetheless, he calmly removed his horn-rimmed spectacles from his eyes as if to paradoxically see better. Old habit, he guessed. He put them in his jacket's pocket and casually placed his hands on his hips.

"What tipped you off about them," he asked Lt. Skinner.

"That informant I mentioned. Two weeks ago the tomboys started getting 'shipments'. By that our source meant about two tons worth of assault rifles, shotguns, pistols, explosives, you name it. He actually was the one who ordered them. Says it was some militiaman in Montana who was the seller. He also started seeing some tomboys coming in with bags. Big, white, moving bags that seemed to squeal and groan. Didn't help when the missing person reports started coming in from Plymouth. He never saw those bags again, if you get my meaning.

"The icing on the shit cake came last weekend when a couple of tomboys took a trip up to Arkham. They broke into Miskatonic University's library, offed a security guard and a graveyard shift librarian, and made off with some items from the rare books collection. Caught it all on security cams. Whatever these guys are, they aren't subtle."

Lusky took out a pack of Camels and a lighter. Bad for you, yes. Good in times such as these, amongst those who worship, yes. He lit up.

"That means," Skinner continued, "we've got these bastards on theft, breaking and entering, possession of illegal firearms, kidnapping, and murder. Now all we need to do is bust the perps while protecting the innocents trapped inside like our source. We also hear there's some kids as well. Let's just make sure we avoid another Waco."

Waco. Now there's a word that was poison to Lusky's years. It stung like the cold New England air. That was the only time his tough exterior had been cracked. He was there, for the better part of all 51 days of it. The ATF wanted him there for similar reasons as they did now. His efforts diffusing a hostage situation during the First Metropolitan Bank robbery of 1989 made him a well-known negotiator in the FBI's ranks. But it wasn't enough in Waco. Not damn near enough. The screams he had heard coming from Koresh's compound when it caught fire had haunted his dreams since. It was no coincidence that the first pack of Camels he bought was at the Texaco on Highway 35 between Waco and Belton.

Lusky took a deep drag from his cigarette and turned to Skinner. "We won't have another Waco," he said with ambiguous confidence. It was a good thing he brought extra packs of Camels today.

His eyes narrowed. "What are they doing now, lieutenant?"

"After they took a few shots at our strike squad they battened down the hatches. Near as we can tell they're at the heart of the compound with the Messenger, doing some kind of ritual. We've heard some weird chants coming from inside, and if the kidnappings are any indication, we need to move fast before they start sacrificing."

Lusky put his spectacles back on and scoped out the barrow and surrounding field. Unremarkable, really. No physical importance except-

Then it occurred to him.

"Why this place Skinner?"

"Glad you asked. The history surrounding Bradford's Barrow goes back almost as far as the governor for which it was named. The old Puritans feared it more than the Indians. Said it harbored the Devil's influence. Plymouth folk have always claimed cults held Witch's Sabbaths up on top of it. No evidence has upturned regarding that, at least until now." His moustached mouth let out an ironic chuckle. "Back when people still cared about old town prejudice there were rumors that Innsmouth folk would venture all the way down here from the Miskatonic region to do something or other. Since the 60s its served as a New Age hotspot. They call it a 'vortex' or some such nonsense. It was unclaimed land until the tomboys bought it in 2009."

Sedona gone wild, thought Lusky grimly. The Jonestown version of Mt. Shasta, coming soon to America's hometown. He took a drag and blew smoke through his sinuses. The sensation was relaxing.

"Regardless," said Lusky, "of the history of Bradford's Barrow it puts us in a strategic challenge. These tomboys have the higher ground. You'll want to stay ale-"

As if on cue, Skinner, who was facing the Temple compound, widened his eyes. His moustache twitched nervously, and Lusky saw panic enter the old agent's eyes.

"Lusky get down!" cried Skinner as he threw himself at the agent. Their bodies fell entwined towards the NBC van to their right. As they landed together, Lusky could hear the unmistakable pops of gunshots. "SHOTS FIRED!" called an ATF agent carrying an M4 carbine. It sounded like a rifle. A tomboy was taking shots at them from the roof of the Temple compound.

Around them, the camp buzzed to life as ATF agents scrambled for cover and readied their weapons. The civilian camera crews went up in a cacophony of screams. An attractive young reporter from CNN tripped over Lusky's feet as she ran for the safety of the NBC van. Her raw panic probably kept her from realizing that her fall had pulled her professional-looking skirt up over her buttocks, fully exposing her panties. The cameraman was still live. That's what five-second delays are for, Lusky thought.

On the ATF side, a barrage of gunfire went up aimed at Bradford's Barrow. The assault lasted for about 20 seconds before abruptly stopping. Lusky could hear the faint death groan of the tomboy. He could not help but feel a pang of pity for the lifeless corpse sprawled awkwardly at the base of the compound's door. Whoever the marksman was he was probably lost and searching for answers before he found the Temple. That's the way these things go. Those who worship eat up the young and broken like they're candy bars. A young man named David Koresh taught Lusky that.

The two agents got up. The reporters were already yelling urgently into their cameras. This was probably the most exciting day of their lives as of yet. Lusky took the cigarette out of his mouth – God knows how it hadn't fallen out already – and stamped it on the ground. He turned to Skinner.

"Let's get started."

#

Sgt. Sally "Sal" Pickman was a woman in a man's world.

Maybe it was Janet Reno, at least before she became America's laughingstock. Maybe it was the one too many viewings of _The Silence of the Lambs _and _Aliens. _Whatever the case, Sal knew what she wanted to be from a young age. She wanted to kick ass. Her mother wasn't exactly keen on Sal's career choice when she joined the FBI academy out of high school. Mrs. Pickman was old fashioned. She still clung to the values passed down from her father like they were her life force. In many ways they were her life force. Sal wouldn't be surprised if she keeled over and had a heart attack if any one ever dared question her traditional sensibilities. It also didn't help that Sal went to work for a federal agency, or as Mrs. Pickman modestly put it, "scum-sucking fed parasites". Sal told her mother to kindly go fuck herself before storming off, her straw-blonde hair bouncing up and down in an animated ponytail. Mrs. Pickman was now safely tucked away at a retirement home in Boston. Sal was here to show the men how it was done.

Besides, its not like she regretted not having balls now that her inner thigh had been punctured by three assault rifle rounds.

Sal was the first to get hit when the FBI strike force moved in to secure the Temple's perimeter. She had barely caught a glimpse of the tomboy with an M4 carbine on the roof before she heard a bang-bang-BANG and felt an incredibly sharp pain in her thigh. She ducked for cover in a small depression a mere twelve meters from the building's exterior. She was just out of the shooter's line of sight. Sal turned on her back and lay prone. Her hand drifted down past her groin and clenched tightly at the wound. It was gushing dark red blood all over her heavy black combat pants and boots. Fuck, she thought. First time I've been shot, and by some cult freak too!

There was no time to waste. Around her the other agents of the FBI squad were either dropping dead or running for cover back at the ATF/FBI task force camp. She would have to rely on her own wits to get out of this one alive. Up top the tomboy was coming up to the edge of the compound and aiming down at her. She flipped back over on her stomach and laboriously pulled herself into a crouching position. Her M4 carbine was just an arm's reach away. Sal grabbed, cocked, and readied the rifle in a series of swift motions that took no less than two seconds. Then she was looking down her iron sights and blasting away at the tomboy. His drained body slumped lifelessly and fell over the edge of the compound, landing five feet to her left outside the depression.

She pulled herself out of the hole and ran back towards the camp. Her left hand covered her wound and her right desperately clutched the carbine. Good thing too, because two other tomboys came to the edge of compound and began taking shots at the scrambling FBI agents. Sal spun around and emptied what was left of her clip into one of the marksmen before finally making it back to camp. In a matter of seconds she was placed on a stretcher and whisked away by a team of ATF paramedics. Federal agents finished off the remaining tomboys on the roof.

All in all the failure of the initial assault left four FBI agents dead and three wounded. Two of the deceased Sal knew personally, and personally Sal could assure each and every one of the tomboys and their beloved Messenger would pay. Just to make sure they paid, Sal insisted on staying in the camp even as she bled into a rudimentary tourniquet. Her injuries weren't life threatening, and she could easily wait the siege out in the back of the ATF ambulance and give tactical tips to any other agents attempting to assault the Temple compound.

One of the men approaching her was familiar. He was Lt. Skinner, her commanding officer. He was both impressed and angered by her brash stunts earlier during the raid. The other was unknown to her. He was a tired looking man with slightly anachronistic horn-rimmed glasses and a cheap suit. He wore nothing that distinguished him as ATF, and as such she assumed he was an FBI agent like herself.

"This is Agent Ray Lusky from the FBI," said Skinner, surely enough. "Agent Lusky this is Sgt. Sal Pickman. She led the Bureau assault on the compound this morning. Took a few bullets to the leg in return, but-"

"I shrugged it off," she interrupted. She wasn't much for subordination. Skinner looked at her with a mix of respect and annoyance.

"Yeah. She volunteered to stick around to point out tips and tricks. She's been closer to the compound than anyone else here. If we're going to start talking about negotiations or a second assault she'll be a valuable asset."

Lusky walked over to Sal's gurney. A paramedic was busy preparing a shot to her right. The right leg of her combat pants had been cut at the top of her hip. Dried blood had turned somewhat orange and was caked in layers on her exposed leg, along with sweat and dirt. It was impressive she had put up this long. "You're a brave woman, Sgt. Pickman," said Lusky and he shook her left hand. She had a strong grip.

"Yeah well I'll do what I can to see this goes over smoothly. Bureau doesn't need another Waco on its hands."

At that Lusky lit up another Camel cigarette. Skinner glowered at him and shot a glance at the canisters of oxygen near Sal's gurney. Lusky caught the ATF agent's meaning, and stamped the cigarette out regretfully on the grass.

"Indeed Sgt. Pickman," said Skinner, "that's why Agent Lusky is here. He's a negotiator. If we can talk the tomboys down somewhat we'll have this whole mess over with by sundown."

Sal's eyes twitched to Lusky's. "Negotiate?! These insane sons of bitches don't negotiate, agent. I got that feeling when they fired three rounds at me and killed two of my friends." Fruitless, she thought. Lusky was obviously just a pencil pusher. She had been mistaken when she saw the tired look in his eyes which she mistook for veteran status. She must have. "We need to be focusing on the next assault," she said to Skinner, "these are the kind of guys who have nothing to lose."

"That's up to Agent Lusky and I to decide. You seem to mistake the extent of the agent's presence here."

Oh really, she thought.

"You may recall the First Metropolitan robbery of '89. Lusky here diffused that when he was about your age, Sgt. Pickman. I'd show some respect."

So he wasn't a pencil pusher after all. Sal looked back at Lusky, half-respectfully and half-apologetically. If he was behind the First Metropolitan he deserved all the respect she could afford. He saved a lot of lives that day.

"My apologies, agent. I didn't know." She winced momentarily as the paramedic stuck the needle into the tender flesh of her right leg and squeezed on the syringe, injecting a clear anesthetic. "I'll help in any way I can. What do you want to know?"

Lusky took out a pen and notebook from his jacket. He flipped past a few pages of notes hastily scribbled from the information Skinner had given him. He clicked his pen and fixed his horn-rimmed glasses. "First I'd like to get a tactical layout of the building. Did you notice any back doors or windows I could use to establish contact?"

"Shouldn't town planning be able to get you blueprints for that, Lusky?" interjected Skinner.

"They would, if the Temple had built to code."

Skinner nodded. "One more thing we can nail the bastards for," he chuckled.

"I didn't get much of a view before they starting popping shots at me," started Sal, "but there is a large window on the west side of the house. Must be in the dining room or a gallery of some kind. Hell if I know."

"That's good." Lusky nodded. "If I can position myself in a clearly visible space I can show our targets that I mean them no harm…"

"_That _is a good way to get shot Lusky." Said Sal.

"…while an ATF marksmen squad covers me from hidden vantage points at the base of the barrow. There's a batch of brush at the base of the barrow's west side," he said, pointing a finger around the corner of the compound, "directly across from the window. If the Messenger's goons try anything they'll be Swiss cheese inside of 30 seconds."

Now _that _is a good agent, Sal thought to herself. Speak softly and carry a big stick. _That's _how you negotiate.

"So what do you need Lusky?" asked Skinner. He brushed his finger across his moustache again. Lusky had deduced by now that that was the lieutenant's nervous gesture.

"Something to amplify my voice by for starts. A loudspeaker or police radio would work if there's any cruisers left in camp," he said, eyes wandering over to the injured woman at his left as if he was considering her urgently. "A disguised bullet-proof vest, small and unobtrusive enough to put under my shirt. Some sort of recording device would be useful too, like those AXON Flex POV cams. It's best to collect all the evidence we can in these situations." Lusky's mind once again wandered to Waco, to the fire. Back in 1991, half of America was convinced the ATF was responsible for the deaths of the Branch Davidians. A lot still were, all because there wasn't enough evidence. Lusky would not make the same mistake twice.

"We can do that," said Skinner.

Sal's eyes traced a path down Lusky's chest and across his waist, scanning for a pistol of some kind. She couldn't see one.

"You gonna bring your gun Lusky?" she asked, concerned.

The agent responded by unzipping his jacket, revealing a black leather holster draped around his torso and shoulders like a desperate flat-bodied animal. A Glock was nestled safely under his left arm. "That's why I use a shoulder holster, ma'am." Lusky zipped up his jacket once again, but not before checking his gun's clip.

Sal nodded approvingly and glanced sternly towards Skinner, as if oxymoronically giving her superior an order. Skinner accepted.

"Well, let's get you suited up Lusky." Skinner motioned with his right hand for the agent to follow him. "Good job sergeant," he said towards Sal. "I'll see that your work here today doesn't go unrewarded."

Sal chuckled. Skinner knew her better than this. Must be caught up with the FBI agent right now. "I'm not going anywhere lieutenant. This ain't over yet."

All Skinner did was nod. Lusky commended her service as well and respectfully gripped her left shoulder before heading off with Skinner to get started. He didn't have this chance in Waco. He didn't have this much control. Lord give me the strength to see myself through now. Please, Lord give me the strength.

There were no atheists in foxholes after all.

#

The weight of the bulletproof vest was nearly unbearable on Lusky's aged body. It wasn't until this moment, when he was walking towards the western gallery window of the Temple compound that he realized how old he had gotten. Besides, the vest was dreadfully uncomfortable. As he stepped from side to side it slid clumsily across his torso. Hell of a day not to wear an undershirt, he thought. The motion was creating painful friction against his hot skin. The triple layer of vest, shirt, and jacket were turning every part of Lusky's body from the waist up into a sauna. It felt strange to complain about body heat on a New England day as chilly as this one, especially now that the rain was picking up.

"Ok radio check. Can you hear me Lusky?" Skinner's voice came in slightly warbled through the earpiece of the POV headset.

"Yeah but you're a little choppy."

"Huh. Must be the weather that's brewing. Looks like a storm." Lusky looked up at the overcast sky, cold droplets of rain streaking his face and clouding his glasses. Something was happening alright, but it seemed too subtle a description to call it a storm. A vortex was a more apt description. The clouds above the barrow were turning into colors that Lusky had never even considered existing in the atmosphere. Rain and lightening poured down in torrents from the storm-front and onto the barrow. That was the other eerie thing about it. Whatever weather pattern this was, it seemed to be centered right over the Temple compound. Lusky wasn't a superstitious man, but his mind couldn't help but conjure images of the ancient Puritanical lore of Bradford's Barrow.

"Well it's your call Lusky. Think we have a good enough connection?"

The agent took a deep breath. Yes, this is it, he thought. And we'll do it right this time. No Waco. No screams. We'll do it right. "Let's do it Skinner."

He prepared to step from the base of barrow up toward the compound. As he prepared his right foot, his hands drifted unexpectedly to his coat pocket. Inside they clasped around the smooth surface of a Camel pack. His right index finger probed the inside of the pack, making out four cigarettes.

Without a further thought, Lusky took the pack out of his jacket, crushed its remaining contents, and dropped the discarded box in the wet brush next to one of the ghillie-suited ATF snipers.

No Waco. No screams.

He moved forward.

"Ok I'm approaching the gallery window now," he said into his mic. In truth he was recording the current events not for Skinner's benefit but for his own. "Looks quiet, no tomboys in sight."

Lusky moved his right arm in a jerking motion, bringing the strapped loudspeaker down from his side and into his outstretched left palm. He clicked it to "ON" and held its grip with one hand.

"My name is Raymond Lusky, I'm a negotiator for the FBI. I'd like to help and make sure no one else gets hurt here today, okay?"

No response. As far as Lusky could tell there wasn't a single soul in the west wing of the Temple of the Outer Messenger. But this still offered strategy in terms of negotiation, so he went on.

"I just want to make sure that you are all alright. I am not here to harm you."

No response. Lusky went on to the standard "subject needs" set of questions.

"Is there anything we can do for you? Do you need anything like food or water."

Not a peep. Lusky was getting anxious. At First Metropolitan, the hostage-takers hadn't come out right away either, but usually by the third set of questions a suspect would reciprocate. Either the tomboys weren't there, or they were preparing something sinister.

Just like that, Lusky heard a scream. It was somewhat muffled by the torrential rainfall and thunder, but he could hear it just the same. It came from the interior of the compound. His eyes widened.

He pulled the loudspeaker away from his mouth to speak into the mic. "Skinner, did you hear that?"  
"Yeah, it doesn't sound good. Keep talking though."

Lusky took three more steps forward.

"I'm just going to come a little closer now. I'm completely unarmed." The Glock swung clumsily about in its holster. "Is everyone safe in there? I think I heard a scream. It probably was just the wind but-"

Another one. This one louder and laced with discernable agony. Shit, this is going bad. This is going Waco. Maybe he shouldn't have crushed his Camels after all. His mind drifted to Skinner's account of white, groaning, _moving _bags.

"I need someone to talk to me from in there. I really don't want people in there to get hurt." That was true enough, unlike his claim about his gun. All that he was reciprocated by was another scream. This time, he could also make out ritualized chanting between thunderclaps. Maybe it was just the vortex of rain about him, but the language that drifted towards him was nothing ever meant to be heard by human ears. It was beyond evil. It was unimaginable.

He pulled the loudspeaker away from his mouth again. This time he dropped it into the soggy ground of the upper barrow. He was less than 20 meters from the gallery window now. A voice drifted into his ear. This time it was an electronic, human voice.

"Lusky, what the hell are you doing!?" yelled Skinner into Lusky's earpiece. "Keep talking to the sons of bitches! Don't make 'em nervous."

"They're killing them in there Skinner! They're killing them while we sit out here playing with ourselves. We have to do something!"

"So do something. We didn't bring you here to become a goddamn commando. We brought you here to talk them down."

Lusky unzipped his jacket and brought his right hand to the holstered Glock. This will work. The tomboys are obviously in the inner compound, far away from the west wing. No one will see him shatter the gallery window's glass. No one will see him approach the inner hub.

"Skinner I have to do this."

"GODDAMN IT LUSKY! You're going to just get them killed, don't you understand!" Skinner's voice was overweening with rage. Lusky could almost see the fire in his eyes in what was otherwise a disembodied voice. But his mind was beyond reason or logic. It was now driven solely by a desire to not repeat the past. If Lusky had lived beyond the next five-minutes, he probably would have slapped himself on the wrist, not his superiors.

The next two minutes seem to be driven exclusively through such primal instincts as the limbic and endocrine system rather than Lusky's higher brainpower. The hand pulled the Glock out of the holster with one quick motion and fired two rounds into the gallery window, shattering the glass. Lusky jogged to the now open portal and hoisted himself over, not minding the sharp fragments of glass that bloodied his hands and legs.

"Lusky stand down! I repeat agent, stand do-" he flipped the POV cam off and tossed it carelessly to the ground outside the Temple. Now both his hands gripped the handle of the Glock. One of them pushed a button on the side which turned on a flashlight. He was in full combat mode now.

The pale light of the Glock's flashlight revealed a darkly fascinating scene. The gallery window indeed opened into a dining room. There were twelve chairs in all surrounding a dark mahogany table, one of which was decorated with lavish reliefs and colors. Obviously the Messenger's. On the table itself, a last supper of meats, potatoes, peas, rolls, and a red liquid that Lusky sincerely hoped was wine was spread out. Half eaten, half cleaned up. It was likely the tomboys were interrupted from their feast when the ATF hit them.

Lusky continued past the dining room and into a corridor. The scene was even darker now that the grey light from the gallery window was retreating. He was in the heart of darkness, and it smelled of death and despair.

As he continued down the hallway, Lusky burst into individual doors revealing small cells where the faithful obviously took residence. But this was no monk's quarters. Candelabras with dripping, red candles stood at attention on nightstands. Each room was stocked with ancient tomes of eldritch lore from authors of every language and depravity. Of the ones Lusky could read in English, he made out handwritten copies of the legendary _Pnakotic Manuscripts _and the dreadful _De Vermis Mysteriis. _There were trunks in each of the rooms that reeked of human flesh. Lusky dared not open them_. _Lord give me the strength to make it out of here alive, if not sane. The thunder clapped outside.

Lusky moved past the rooms and entered what seemed to be a foyer of some kind. Grey light seeped into the room from windows that Lusky eventually realized were placed on the front doors of the Temple compound. Currently, his mind was too distracted by the horror in front of him.

Spread-eagled on a large, wooden pallet leaned up against the southern wall of the foyer was the remains of what Lusky could only guess used to be a man. The thing itself was stripped down to its undershorts and caked in dried blood and materials far worse. Far more brainy. The limbs were twisted into awkward positions, and it dawned horrifically to Lusky that the arms and legs were rotated 180 degrees backwards. White bones stuck out of the thing's cadaverous flesh here and there. If the indescribable expression on its face was any indication, the "man" who once possessed this body was still alive when his limbs had been grotesquely altered. The light of Lusky's flashlight revealed a single word etched into the thing's chest with the same dull stake that had been laboriously forced into its forehead. It read "APOSTATE".

Although his mind was too wracked with horror, Lusky made out in the back of his head that this was what was left of the informant who had tipped the authorities off about the unnamable atrocities being committed in the Temple of the Outer Messenger.

This was the price of justice, of truth. This was worse than Waco. Somehow, it was far, far worse.

Lusky vomited the contents of his stomach next to the macabre display. It provided no relief, and all Lusky could sense now was bubbling acid in his stomach and esophagus in addition to the noxious miasma being emitted by the "apostate".

Okay, get ahold of yourself Ray. You can do this.

To add further urgency, Lusky's ears once again were blasted by the demonic chants of the tomboys coming from some alien inner chapel inside of the Temple. The screams came to him once again, so loud that they made his eardrums ring.

My god, if they could do this to their own people, imagine what they could being doing to-

He ran.

He ran past the gruesome display and into the hallway adjacent to the one he had entered from at a breakneck pace. His lungs burned with lack of oxygen and adrenaline. He was ready to come in guns blazing.

Finally he reached a door at the end of the corridor. A yellow strip of jaundiced light was coming through the crevice under the heavy wooden door. The screams and chants were right before him now. They were almost unbearable. One breath. Two breaths. He readied the Glock and with a climax of terror and rage kicked the door in.

It was obscene.

It was an abomination.

Before him was a scene of cosmic horror beyond the merciful myopia of human imagination. The faithful worshippers of the Messenger were kneeling around a stone altar in a perfect circle, naked and arms outstretched to the wretched, fleshy thing in front of them. A description of it was not possible. The mere sight of it made Lusky drop his Glock and fall to his knees, weeping hysterically. In his final moments, he was left a mere shattered husk of a man. The worshippers paid him no attention.

All that can be said was that this thing had flesh. It had arms. It had tentacles. It was a mountain of all that which mortal minds cannot comprehend. An amalgam of the nightmares of nightmares.

Before it on the altar, the lifeless remains of a nude woman were sprawled out. Her hair was matted with hard blood and distributed out on a great tome bound in human flesh. It was the fabled _Necronomicon, _the terrible result of the Temple's trip to Miskatonic. The sacraments had been performed. The dread prophecy of Abdul Alhazred had become reality.

The worshippers ended their chant. Now the only thing left speaking was the undulating thing before the altar, although its intonation knew no place in the spectrum of human sound. If such a thing could be understood, it could be taken to mean this:

"Ia! Ia! I, Nyarlathotep, the messenger and soul of ye Outer Ones awaken thee! The time has come! The universe awaits the end of your slumber. I awaken thee, Azathoth, the daemon-sultan bubbling at the center of infinity! Ia! Ia! I bring a message, and that message is AWAKE".

#

Skinner was still screaming into the mic of his headset when it happened. Lusky had to get his ass out of there. My god, people were going to die today.

Yes, yes they were.

The swirling vortex above the compound broke forth in the fury that only the eons old Blind Idiot at the center of all that is could muster. First there was a loud roar that overwhelmed the ATF forces. That is, the closest equivalent of what they experienced was a roar. It was more a force that pulled the very atomic fabric of reality apart at the seams. It decimated the eardrums of every person within a thirty-mile radius of the Temple. Skinner's head was overtaken by insufferable pain as he began to hemorrhage profusely from the sides of his head. Brain matter mixed with blood and fell to the turf of the barrow, which had become browned as all the grass suddenly shriveled up and died.

Next a barrage of light erupted from the vortex and destroyed the wooden frame of the compound. There were no remains. The wood simply condensed into its most intramolecular form and sprayed across the surrounding landscape, showering the ATF agents in painful splinters that penetrated their skin and burrowed deep into their muscle.

The barrage of light pounded mercilessly into the earth and spread out underneath the barrow as if the soil itself had suddenly transformed into a vast matrix of varicose veins. The light spread outward infinitely, reaching Plymouth in a manner of minutes. Wherever it touched, the ground vibrated and flexed, as if shifting through innumerable alterations in matter and time. The atomic structure of all that mankind has ever known was being dismantled.

Skinner's body was among the first to crumple as his atoms ripped themselves apart and he dissipated into nothingness as his energy was neither created nor transformed, only completely wiped from the face of existence. Every ATF agent at the barrow faced the same fate. In fact, every mortal creature on this world and beyond, every soul that had ever taken a breath in any possible universe eventually experienced Skinner's fate as the pulsating light of Azathoth spread out across existence like veins of cosmic terror.

One could even call the ones at Bradford's Barrow lucky, unlike the poor souls who survived the next days and experienced the painful time shifts as their minds drifted from past to present to lives never lived. Skinner never experienced the tumors that grew like bamboo into the throats of men and slowly suffocated their victims to death. Sal Pickman was spared the fate of being erased entirely from existence, memory thereof and all, while still conscious_. _Lusky was the most fortunate off all, merely being obliterated in the explosion that destroyed the Temple at Bradford's Barrow, and all those who worshipped.

Azathoth had awakened.

END


End file.
